She Remembers
by whirleeq
Summary: One shot. Prose. Some doors can't be opened once closed. Light IYKag


A/N: Don't own Inuyasha, please don't sue. This was just written on a whim; a little 'what-if Kagome turned away from it all' scenario. It means nothing, and is probably crap, but I wanted to try a different (more metaphoric) style of writing.

* * *

In the deep, hidden part of her mind, she remembers. 

She remembers the well that was not a well at all, but a door.

She remembers the first time she was pulled through the well that was a door, how her heart beat wildly in her chest, how she shivered in fear, wondering who, what, why.

She had thought she was dreaming, and perhaps she was.

Yet dreams, like all treasured things, fade over time.

But this dream she remembers vividly; just as she remembers the forest that was part of another world, another time, or maybe a dream. Just as she remembers the well that was a not a well, but a door.

There were trees in that forest, she remembers. There were trees, and dirt and lush vegetation, untouched and peaceful, with only the wind disturbing its tranquility.

She remembers this just as she remembers the boy she found in that forest, tranquil and beautiful, his white hair splayed all around him like a curtain of fine silk, peaceful and quiet though he was as bright as the sun. A beautiful boy with soft fuzzy ears and golden eyes that brightened when she smiled and darkened when she cried.

She remembers the confusion, the hatred, the love in his voice as he called her by another's name, one that was hers and yet not hers. But mostly she remembers the love, and how that love grew tall like the trees of the forest, yet remained somehow closed to her like a door.

And she remembers how she loved the boy in return; the boy with the pretty white hair and golden eyes, the boy who wasn't quite a boy, wasn't quite a demon. She remembers how this boy was everything and yet wasn't quite anything at all, because he was a dream.

And it was a beautiful dream, this boy who wasn't quite a boy with the pretty white hair in his beautiful, tranquil forest.

But the thing about dreams is that they fade over time.

She remembers the sad, scarred girl from the other side of the well, slightly older than her and filled with so much pain. And the young, handsome and doomed holy man, who hid his sadness behind a pair of twinkling violet eyes and wandering hands.

She remembers another boy who was not a boy, who had lost his family and called her mother when she was but a child. She remembers pocky and lollipops and hugs and crayons and quiet sobs as the child who was not a child clung to her desperately beneath the canopy of the trees, fearing that perhaps she too would disappear, just like his family, just like the fading remnants of a dream.

And when she closes her eyes, she can remember the bright blue eyes and confident smile of yet another boy who was not a boy. She remembers his boundless energy and enthusiasm and his strong hands and fierce determination that she would one day come to love him, even though they both knew that that was a door that she would never open.

She remembers that she loved him anyway, in her own way.

But some nights, she also remembers the other ones in that forest; the child who was nothing, the wind who was not the wind, and the spider who snared them all in his fine web of silk like so many flies, and took everything from her and yet nothing at all, because it was all just a pretty dream.

She remembers when her pretty dreamed shattered into a nightmare, and the spider's silk flowed from his many arms like a river; not white and pure, but red and sticky and thick..

But the well was a not a well but a door and the thing about doors is that they can be closed.

And the thing about dreams is that they fade over time.

Nightmares, however, remain fresh and haunting and cruel.

She knows all of this, and she _remembers_.

She remembers that she made a mistake, and she regrets and longs and wishes and _hopes--_

Yet she knows that some doors can't be re-opened once they are closed, so she forces herself to hold on to the gossamer threads of her dream and to _remember_.

But the thing about dreams is that they fade over time.

And when they do, she knows that all she'll be left with are her nightmares.


End file.
